


Out of the Mouths of Babes

by xfphile



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Casefic (sort of), Gen, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xfphile/pseuds/xfphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her defense, Miranda was hardly expecting a dull, typical morning and routine lunch (in which she graded papers, rode herd on a large number of 11 and 12 year-olds, and did her level best to din some knowledge of basic grammar into their heads before bringing not one, but *two* food fights to a screeching halt) to segue into two masked gunmen calmly entering her classroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Mouths of Babes

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I give up. I have no idea where this came from, other than my liking for 'outsider POV.' This . . . is a difficult fic to describe. It's got a case, but it isn't really a case!fic, it has angst, but nothing that requires a tissue or a bottle of alcohol, and it's from the POV of an original character (I have no idea where she came from, either) who has a momentary impact on the crew. In short, it's . . . different?

** Out of the Mouths of Babes **

 

Sometimes, an average day in a week, month, year full of them, was worse than an awful day. The monotony of ‘same old/nothing ever changes/being in a rut’ was more threatening to one’s mental and emotional health than a weapon-wielding madman threatening you because . . . well, because apathy had a chance to set in, and with apathy came its cousins lethargy and complacency. And when _those_ set up shop, the mind almost invariably began to rot. Miranda Chesterton, grammar school teacher at Eton, had seen that very progression too many times to count and, while feeling sympathy for the person who no longer felt the desire to _try_ , had always been a little contemptuous of that mindset.

Until the day she was introduced to her own personal version of Average Life Apathy.

In her defense, Miranda was hardly expecting a dull, typical morning and routine lunch (in which she graded papers, rode herd on a large number of 11 and 12 year-olds, and did her level best to din some knowledge of basic grammar into their heads before bringing not one, but _two_ food fights to a screeching halt) to segue into two masked gunmen calmly entering her classroom less than a minute after she’d finished her afternoon roll call and, rather respectfully (for men holding a bloody GUN on her) ask her to remain seated while they escorted young Samuel Brownstone (son of Stone and Slab Industries CEO Winston Brownstone II) out. If she did, she was assured, they would harm no one. Seeing as there were twenty-one petrified children in her care, their teacher obeyed. But, having been quite the avid artist (pencil, thank you) in her younger years – and still occasionally dabbling in it – Miranda was able to pick out several details about them that the average person likely would not have noticed.

She did wonder, though, why neither man so much as made mention of the fact that she had a mobile (as did several of her students), never mind ask her to relinquish, destroy, or otherwise do anything with it. It was almost as if . . . truly, it appeared that they _wanted_ to be chased.

Given that they were kidnapping a terrified, though bravely trying to hide it, ten-year-old boy, this was . . . disquieting.

Still, Miranda was no fool, and so the minute they closed the door behind them, she was snatching her phone out of her purse and fumbling to dial 999. This effort was promptly derailed by her entire class exploding into uncontrolled chaos. Fortunately, having been a teacher for nearly thirty years, the parent of three children, and the grandmother of four, she was able to calm them with a firm, loud, “Quiet!” (it was not unlike Dumbledore in the ‘troll scene’ in _The Philosopher’s Stone_ movie, actually.)

Silence fell, though it only lasted a few seconds before hushed, frantic conversations bubbled up. She again took control of the situation by imperiously ordering Lisa Hampton to go directly to the Headmaster’s office and request – POLITELY, mind you – that he come to her classroom with all haste. The girl immediately obeyed, which served twin purposes: the headmaster would be informed quickly, and the other students were currently ignoring the kidnapping in favour of the usual envy that someone else got to leave the classroom/play errand girl/do some special duty for the teacher. This gave Miranda enough time to get Emergency Services on the line and give them the gist of the situation. That task done, she returned her attention to her class – and tried desperately to fight down her fear for Samuel.

The arrival of Colin Bloodworth, headmaster of Eton, pulled her attention to more pressing concerns. He was of medium height, with dark blonde hair cut short in a valiant attempt to hide a receding hairline, a neatly trimmed blonde beard, and hazel eyes that were currently almost black with fury – and no small amount of fear. That hard gaze immediately sought her out and Miranda felt bizarrely like a butterfly pinned to a display board.

The moment passed when Bloodworth snapped, “What’s this about Brownstone being kidnapped?” in a harsh tenor completely unlike his usual well-modulated tones. Miranda barely controlled a flinch; there were several startled jumps and a few whimpers from her students. The headmaster noticed and visibly calmed himself down before asking in a deceptively-even voice, “Mrs. Chesterton, may I have a word outside?” while opening the door in a clear invitation – well, demand, actually. Before obeying, she looked each child in the eye and said, “I want every mobile on my desk in two minutes.” The crestfallen looks that appeared on all twenty young faces were almost comical.  “I know this is exciting news and you want to share it,” she soothed. “But until we know what those men want, it’s safer for all of us not to say anything until the police talk to us.”

As expected, that didn’t make much of an impact, so Miranda upped the ante. “How would you feel if anything happened to Samuel because one of us said something we shouldn’t have?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the headmaster frown, and internally winced. That had been somewhat unfair, but these were CHILDREN, who truly didn’t know any better, and reminding them of their classmate’s plight would chastise them enough (only just, but Miranda would take it) to keep them from spreading gossip that could feasibly get him hurt – or killed.

(Well, until the police arrived. And, good Lord, their parents. Miranda could _feel_ the headache gearing up and mentally cursed the fact that she never kept medication in her classroom.)

Sure enough, every child stood up (some more reluctantly than others) and carried their phone to her desk, setting it in her ‘completed work’ box. They were done and back in their seats in just over the allotted two minutes (which was really quite remarkable for a group that young) and Miranda gave them a proud smile, absently noting Bloodworth’s impressed look.

“Thank you, children,” she said. “I appreciate your assistance.” Several of them straightened in their chair at her approving words and Miranda felt her smile widen. She allowed it for a moment before pulling back a little. “Now,” she said briskly, “I need to have a word with the headmaster, so you may play Hangman if you wish, so long as you stay quiet and don’t destroy anything.” Here she paused and cast that ‘parental teacher’s eye’ (which had made her children squirm every time she used it) over her class. “And as we’ll be just outside the door, I *will* know if you misbehave.” (and there was the squirming. Despite the gravity of the situation, Miranda felt a grin pulling at her lips, and forcibly restrained it.)

“Yes, Mrs. Chesterton,” came the despondent group-wide response. Firmly repressing another amused grin, Miranda nodded to the class and stepped past the headmaster into the hallway. The hollow _thud_ of the door being pulled shut reminded her of the situation and all humour died.

“What happened, Miranda?” Bloodworth demanded the second the door was closed. She quickly gave him a rundown of events, finishing with, “If you’ll permit me, Sir, I have some skill with remembering details and should have time for a rough sketch to give the police.”

This earned her a raised eyebrow and she shrugged. “Everyone has a misspent youth, Headmaster,” she pointed out. The other eyebrow rose. “For a given value of ‘misspent,’” she conceded. “With your permission, then, Sir?” she requested. He gave a brusque nod and she reached for the door, only to pause when he abruptly said, “Wait! Will you want to meet the police in your classroom?”

Miranda pondered her options for a moment before shaking her head.

“They’ll doubtless want to examine the room,” she mused. “In addition, it will be extremely crowded with the students, myself, probably two or more officers, and – you, I presume?” she questioned. Bloodworth nodded, so she continued. “I think the cafeteria should work quite nicely; shall I bring the students down now?”

Her headmaster shook his head. “No,” he told her. “You start on your sketch and I’ll take them.” Here he paused and flashed a mischievous smile. “I think they’ll behave for me, don’t you?”

“If they don’t, Sir, then I formally wash my hands of them,” she replied drolly. “Of course, so will you, so it’s entertainment all ‘round.”

(It should at this point be mentioned that Miranda Chesterton had a very dry and (somewhat) wicked sense of humour. It should also be mentioned that for her, as with a large percentage of the population, humour was a coping mechanism – as it was with one Colin Bloodworth, for example.)

A soft snort was his only visible sign of amusement and he opened the door, gesturing her to move back.

“All right, class,” he said jovially as he stepped into the room, “everyone get up and head to the cafeteria. Single-file, if you please,” he added at the _en masse_ attempt to rush the door. The sight of twenty small bodies skidding to a halt before scrambling to form a line brought laughter back to their teacher’s lips, but it was tinged with a sharp edge that she recognized as imminent hysteria. As this was far from the first hysteria-inducing incident in her life, Miranda calmly locked her emotions away until it was safe to deal with them.

The last child was out of the classroom by then and she took a moment to watch them follow the headmaster, looking for all the world like the Pied Piper and his enchanted listeners.

Or a line of ducklings following their mother.

Either way, their well-behaved obedience warmed her heart and she gave the group a soft, fond smile before moving quickly to the supply cabinet at the back of her classroom and grabbing several sheets of printer paper and a box of newly-sharpened pencils. Five minutes later, she was nearly done with her sketch of the first man when the combined sound of several footsteps and a low cacophony of voices caught her attention. She looked up just as the door to her classroom opened and (happily married for thirty-seven years, thank you, but not dead) inadvertently caught her breath at the sheer _attractiveness_ of the tall, well-built, silver-haired policeman (couldn’t be anything else, not with that regal bearing) standing in the door.

“Miranda Chesterton?” he inquired in a rich, low tenor.

Not one hint of her reaction showed as she stood and offered her hand. “I am,” she replied.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he said with firm, brisk handshake as he met her eyes. “I’d like you to tell me what happened, if that’s not a problem. I understand that no one was injured.”

“Of course it’s no problem, And no, none of us were harmed.” she assured him, gesturing to the folding chairs resting against the wall by the door. He nodded and grabbed two, setting them up while she reseated herself and put the finishing touches on her first sketch.

“All right, then, let’s get – I’m sorry, what are you doing?” he interrupted himself, watching her with curiosity.

“Oh, I dabble in drawing, Inspector, and I thought a sketch of the two men might be of some use,” Miranda told him

He stared incredulously for a few seconds before chuckling and waving her on. “Please, go right ahead,” he requested. “God knows we’ll need all the information you can provide.”

“Gladly. It should take me about five or so minutes, if that’s all right?” she asked, grabbing the pencil sharpener.

“More than,” he said fervently. “I’m going to take a look around the room, then, while you’re working – unless it will disturb you?” he finished hesitantly, giving her a searching look.

“Oh, by all means, go,” she said. “Do you have any questions now?”

“No,” he answered, shaking his head. “I’d like to get an untouched first impression.”

This made perfect sense and Miranda nodded before turning her attention to making her second sketch as accurate as possible. Peripherally, she was aware of a quiet conversation and soft footsteps, but it wasn’t until she finished her work and looked up that Miranda actually registered the presence of a second person. This officer was a woman, somewhat younger than the Inspector, with toffee-coloured skin and riotously-curly hair (which Miranda rather envied; she’d been cursed with hair that was both straight and fine, and would not hold a curl if you set it in a bronze mould).

The movement caught Lestrade’s attention and he instantly looked at her, a hint of worry clouding his features.

“I’m sorry, did we disturb you?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she replied. “I’ve finished them both.”

“Excellent,” he breathed, leading the woman to her desk and gesturing her into one of the folding chairs as he sank wearily into the other, before giving a soft, “Oh!” of realization and providing an introduction. “Miranda Chesterton, this is Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.”

Since they were all seated, Miranda simply nodded respectfully to the sergeant before looking back to Lestrade, who pulled out a small black notebook and stubby pencil.

“All right,” he said after clearing his throat, “shall we get started? Mrs. Chesterton, will you just take us through the event as you remember it?”

“Certainly,” she replied. “It was the first class after lunch and I had quite literally just completed my daily roll call when the door opened and two men carrying handguns came in. They were masked and wearing matching black work boots, plain denims, black leather jackets, and black gloves; I afraid I didn’t see anything of their shirts. The taller man stayed at the door with his gun pointed at me while his partner went straight to poor Samuel and pulled him out of his desk. He told me that so long as I didn’t do anything to stop them, none of us would be harmed, and as I had a class full of children, I obeyed him. True to his word, they walked Samuel out the door and closed it, and didn’t make a single threat of any sort. They didn’t even ask for my mobile.”

Lestrade had been writing furiously, as had Donovan, and they both looked up when she stopped talking. “Then what?” he prompted.

“Then I calmed my class down long enough to call 999, summoned the headmaster, and waited for your arrival,” she said before taking a moment to consider her next words. She was well-aware that she knew nothing about police investigations and even less about kidnappings, but she was good at reading people and she had a nagging feeling that her initial thought of the kidnappers wanting to be chased was important.

“It was . . . remarkably civilized, Detective Inspector,” she said slowly, working out the best wording as she went. “What truly disturbs me – beyond them taking Samuel – is the fact that neither of them made a single attempt to get my mobile. Which means that they not only _knew_ the police would be informed within moments of the abduction, they weren’t concerned about it. And I’m terribly afraid that means they _want_ to be chased.”

Lestade was looking at her with open admiration when she finished; Donovan’s expression was more complicated. Admiration was present, but there was also something that looked like – contempt? Disgust? Miranda wasn’t quite sure what that other emotion was, but she recognized the sentiment and frankly, it rather annoyed her. Just because she had learned to utilize her gifts and abilities (and honed them in the fires of teaching and parenting) didn’t mean she was trying to encroach on police territory. Her supposition might turn out to be nothing, but Miranda had long ago decided (for better or worse) that she would rather offer a thought and have it be unnecessary than stay silent out of fear or caution, only for that thought or idea to be a needed, but unused or unfound, stepping-stone.

And when it came to finding her kidnapped student, Miranda would say or do anything if she thought it would be a legitimate help and damn any egos that got trampled in the process.

(she did mention ‘for better or worse,’ right? After all, stubbornness was a family trait, and submissiveness had never been her style; it was mind-boggling how much trouble she had made for herself until she finally grew up and learned some discipline)

Apparently, some of this showed in her expression, because Donovan’s face closed off and Lestrade gave a quick frown that vanished when he asked, “And where are your students, Ma’am? We’ll need to speak with them as well.”

Making the decision to ignore (for the moment) the sergeant and her odd reaction, Miranda looked back to Lestrade.

“Oh, we moved them to the cafeteria, Inspector,” she said, grabbing her class roster and absently smoothing her skirt as she stood, both officers rising with her. “But . . . don’t you have to wait for their parents?” she inquired after they had left the classroom and started down the hall.

“Not for this, and we can’t wait that long,” Donovan replied. “They were all present when the boy was taken, so there’s no chance of their testimony being tainted. Any follow-up questions will be in the presence of their parents, but we need to get moving on finding Samuel.”

“Right,” Lestrade agreed before fixing Donovan with a stern look. “Which is why I called him in,” he said to her, confusing Miranda to no end – especially as Donovan’s face screwed up with a combination of frustration, contempt, and anger. She smoothed it out almost instantly, but the damage was done. Miranda had seen it, even if she didn’t understand it.

Yet.

“Sir,” Donovan objected, her voice surprisingly free of emotion, “we don’t need him. We’re all experienced, well-trained, officers of the law. We don’t need the freak swanning in and taking over!” she finished, her eyes flashing with both resolve and resentment.

Miranda, who was currently being ignored, frowned. Who was this man Inspector Lestrade had called in and why was the sergeant calling him a freak? That was beyond rude! Also, Miranda now had a strong chance of getting a false impression of this man when she met him, which might prove detrimental in the search for Samuel. Before she could voice her own objection, however, Lestrade snapped, “Because my ego isn’t worth that child’s life, _Sergeant,_ and if finding him safe and unharmed means making a deal with the devil, then bring me a bloody goat!”

There was a startled beat of silence from everyone before a look of embarrassment crossed the inspector’s face and he turned to Miranda, an apology on his lips.

“I’m so sorry about that, Mrs. Chesterton,” he said. “Shall we go?”

Now extremely confused, Miranda could only nod and start walking – while thinking, and thinking hard. By the time they reached the cafeteria, her composure had returned and she’d given the officers a quick rundown on the best approach to take with each child, and they were eager to get started.

They split up as they entered the room, Donovan going straight to some of her fellow officers to help with constructing an enclosed space where the children could be questioned privately without actually leaving the room. Miranda directed Lestrade to the window, where Bloodworth stood gazing pensively out into the courtyard.

“Headmaster,” she asked quietly, not wishing to startle him.

“Yes?” he answered without turning around.

“The police have arrived, Sir, and would like a word.”

“Certainly,” he replied and turned – only to blink in surprise at Lestrade, who took it in stride.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he introduced himself, accepting the proffered hand.

“Colin Bloodworth, Headmaster,” Bloodworth said quietly, his eyes taking in the inspector with a scrutiny that most people (Miranda included) found unnerving. Lestrade didn’t even notice (this would shortly make much more sense).

“Do you have any other information or details, Headmaster?” he asked urgently, pencil and notebook in hand.

Bloodworth regretfully shook his head.

“I’m afraid not, Inspector,” he answered. “I knew nothing about the situation until Mrs. Chesterton sent a student to inform me. I can tell you that we’ve received no communication of any sort since young Brownstone was taken, for all the help that is.”

Lestrade visibly restrained a sigh as he nodded. “Well, then, I should like to get started questioning the other children,” he said, nodding in the direction of the hastily-constructed enclosure. “With your permission?”

Bloodworth nodded and Lestrade turned to walk off, only to pause and extend a hand to Miranda. “Will you come reassure them?” he requested with a small smile. “This might be upsetting for some of them and we don’t want that.”

“Of course,” she replied, stepping to his side with a nod to Bloodworth, who arched an eyebrow but said nothing as Lestrade escorted her to the table where her class was gathered and being remarkably quiet.

Almost suspiciously so.

That mystery was solved when she got to the table and saw two pairs of handcuffs and a taser holster being passed around and played with under the watchful eye of a constable. His eyes widened when he saw her, but her approving smile drew an answering grin before he cleared his throat and drew the children’s attention.

“It looks like Mrs. Chesterton has arrived,” he said with a nod at her. Showing more discipline than any 10-year-old should ever have to, they didn’t leap to their feet or attempt to swarm her. They did, however, start talking at the top of their lungs, vying for her attention. She allowed it for a few seconds before uttering another firm, loud, “Quiet!” It worked just as well the second time as it had the first, and Miranda made a mental note to keep that particular skill in her repertoire.

“All right, class, these nice officers need to ask you each some questions about what you saw,” she began, making sure she had their full attention. “So please, tell them everything you remember _about what happened_ and if you need me, just ask and they’ll fetch me. Any questions?”

After nearly a minute, Cynthia Perkins raised her hand and Miranda gave her an encouraging smile as she said, “Yes, Cynthia?”

“We won’t get in trouble?” she asked in a quavering voice. “Even if we don’t remember anything?”

“No,” Miranda said immediately. “Even if you don’t remember anything. The officer will ask you some different questions, but you will not get in trouble if you don’t remember. I promise.”

There were several uncertain looks (which was to be expected) but no other questions. After another few minutes, Miranda nodded to Lestrade, who had been standing off to the side, a silent observer.

“This is Detective Lestrade,” she told her class. “He’ll be the one asking you questions, and I want you to be respectful to him.”

“Hi,” Lestrade said to the group, coming to the table and dropping to a crouch next to it, putting himself at eye-level with the children. “As Mrs. Chesterton said, I’m Inspector Lestrade, but you can call me Inspector Greg if you like. Do you have any questions before we get started?” he asked gently, his gaze touching each child.

“Is Sam going to be okay, Inspector Greg?” Christopher Dixon asked softly, his little face pleading for reassurance – an expression every one of his classmates mirrored. Lestrade didn’t hesitate.

“We are going to do everything in our power to get him back safe,” he vowed strongly, once again meeting the eyes of each child. “And that’s why we’re talking to you. Anything you saw or heard – _anything at all_ , _”_ he stressed, “is important and as your teacher said” – he gave her a small smile – “you will not get in trouble for anything you tell us. You have my word.”

Earlier, Miranda had seen the imposing, commanding Detective Inspector; now she saw the kind, gentle man that doubtless inspired his team to follow him to hell. Her entire class had relaxed somewhat and she couldn’t stop the relived smile the sight invoked.

“It’ll be easier to go alphabetically,” she told Lestrade as she handed him the roster and gestured to Kevin Anderson. “Go with Inspector L – Greg, Kevin,” she said with a smile for the boy.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied and stepped to Lestrade’s side.

“I’ll have Fletcher escort them to and from,” he told her before gently taking Kevin’s shoulder and guiding him to the enclosure. She heard him ask which football team he liked best before a gentle tug on her wrist brought her attention back to the table. As she couldn’t do anything to help for the moment, Miranda smiled at the group and settled herself at the table, deciding that a round of ‘what do you want to do for the summer holidays?’ would help to keep them occupied.

Then, a bare ten minutes later, her class was exposed to another type of ugliness – the kind which they were, regrettably, well-familiar with as children but had likely (hopefully) not seen among adults.

It was Duncan – the officer at the table – who first caught her attention by suddenly looking at the door, his eyes filling with – anticipation? Puzzled, Miranda followed his gaze and saw a young man, slim with dark curls and an unusual face, stride confidently though the door, followed closely by a shorter, stockier man who had a pleasant face and short brown hair.

And Donovan’s earlier exchange with Lestrade suddenly made horrific sense.

“What do you want, freak?” she demanded as she moved to intercept dark-haired man, her voice clearly carrying even though she hadn’t been particularly loud.

Silence fell across the entire room.

Surging to her feet, Miranda barely noticed his companion stiffen while his expression went dark with anger, because she was too busy trying to control her own outrage. How _dare_ that woman call someone a freak, never mind to their face?!? And in front of a roomful of traumatized children, no less! She was going to give that woman a piece of her mind. That was _not_ acceptable behaviour for _anyone_ , regardless of the reason.

Before she could take more than a few steps, though, Annabelle Cartwright did it for her. Constable Fletcher was escorting her back to the table when the newcomers arrived and she blinked at Donovan.

“Why did you call him ‘freak?’” she asked with the innocence that only a child can muster. “That’s not nice.”

Filled with pride in her student, Miranda watched as Donovan flushed. She didn’t have the chance to answer before Annabelle pulled free of Fletcher and went to the man, fearlessly meeting his silver gaze.

“I’m sorry that she hurt your feelings,” the girl told him earnestly. “Are the police going to question you?”

His companion snorted softly and was ignored as the younger man blinked a few times before saying, “I – no, they’re not.”

Annabelle beamed at this. “Good!” she exclaimed, grabbing his hand. “Then you can sit with me. We’re talking about what we want to do for the summer hols.”

Never in her life had Miranda Chesterton been so proud of anyone – even as the hastily-disguised panic in the man’s eyes made her want to laugh. His frantic look to the man behind him only warranted a wicked smirk and a drawled, “Yes, Sherlock, why don’t you tell them your plans for the summer?”

Now he looked horrified, even as Annabelle insistently tugged on his hand. Taking pity on the man – Sherlock? – Miranda stepped forward.

“Annabelle, dear, I think he’s here to help the police,” she said as she gently detached him from the girl’s firm grip. “But thank you for offering to include him,” she continued, looking first at Annabelle, then the two men, before pinning a hard look on Donovan, who looked mortified. “That was very well done of you. Now, go sit down while I talk with these nice gentlemen.”

Annabelle pouted but obeyed, dropping heavily into a seat. Within seconds, they were forgotten as she was bombarded with ‘how did it go’ from the other students.

Miranda shook her head and turned back to the two men.

“That . . . that was brilliant,” the brown-haired man told her, grinning. “You’ve taught them well.”

“Thank you,” Miranda replied as she shook his hand, stealing a glance at the younger man as she did so. “I’m Miranda Chesteron, their – hang on, how did you know I was their teacher?” she asked, having suddenly realized they shouldn’t have.

“Child’s play,” the young man – Sherlock - sniffed. “You have chalk on your skirt, red ink on your left hand, and your trainers were carefully chosen to look good with the clothes you wear to teach while still being comfortable for standing for long periods.”

Dumbstruck, Miranda could only gape at him as he continued.

“In addition, you aren’t currently wearing your glasses, but they’re on a lanyard, suggesting that you need them for reading or grading papers but not for everyday use, and don’t like to wear them if it’s unnecessary.”

He made as though to continue, but a gentle elbow to his side from his companion stopped him, and he turned his head to scowl at the other man.

“That was truly amazing,” Miranda breathed appreciatively, staring at her left hand – where, indeed, there were a few marks from the red pen she had been using to grade papers. “Simply astounding.”

She caught the surprise that flared in his eyes before it was quickly hidden behind an impassive wall and couldn’t stop the glare she gave Donovan, who was staring at her with a strange mixture of resentment and stunned disbelief.

Things started to fall into place for Miranda. That resentment, coupled with Donovan’s earlier exchange with Lestrade, was something Miranda had seen before. One could not be a teacher for long – especially in a place like Eton, which tended to cater to the best and brightest – without running into the shark-infested waters of genius. Particularly in the age group that she dealt with. At that age, children didn’t yet understand that they needed to – not hide, but tone down, their intelligence. This made them a target, because people fear what they don’t understand and envy what they don’t have, and children in particular add cruelty to that mix.

More often than not, this led to the smart and/or gifted child being privately used and publicly ostracized for something they cannot help or stop. It also led to frustrated, helpless teachers. They could (and some did) punish the bullies for their overt actions, but that just drove them to do it quietly, privately, which only made the situation worse. And of course, by the time the child was old enough to understand that he needed to be cautious about his gifts, it was too late. It was a vicious cycle that frustrated teachers like Miranda to no end, because there wasn’t a solution. Ignore the child or protect her, either way left them with a pack of bullies and no support system.

Still, just because Miranda understood the mindset didn’t mean it was right or acceptable, and the fact that a grown woman was so petty as to degrade a man to his face for using his gifts was beyond the pale.

The fact that she did so in public, in front of her colleagues, was alarming.

But Miranda had never been shy about voicing her opinion and, having spent half her life teaching children from every walk of life, knew what would be the best course of action.

Smiling at them, she offered her hand to the younger man. “Thank you for that lesson in observation, Mister . . .?”

“Holmes,” he replied, looking a touch baffled. “Sherlock Holmes.” He paused and cocked his head, studying her with an intensity that made Bloodworth look like he wasn’t trying.

No wonder Lestrade hadn’t noticed that penetrating stare. If he spent any time around this man, he’d have to get used to it in order to stay sane. Speaking of Lestrade . . .

It took effort, but Miranda kept her smile and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you both, Mr. Holmes, Mister –“

She paused when she realized she didn’t know the other man’s name. He started to reply, but Sherlock cut him off.

“Doctor John Watson,” he said impatiently without looking away from her. After several seconds, he finally asked, “It really didn’t bother you?”

“Of course not,” she assured him. “Much the opposite – I could wish all my students had the ability to gather and collate data like that.”

“I know what you mean,” Watson broke in, giving his companion a warning look as he opened his mouth. “I’m working on it, but it’s a lot harder than it looks, let me tell you.”

“No doubt,” Miranda said, her smile turning a touch feral. “Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to have a word.”

She deliberately didn’t specify just _who_ she would be having that word with, but the satisfied gleam in Watson’s eye told her he knew. He gave her a deep nod, his expression now showing gratitude. She understood that. Men such as Sherlock Holmes did not do well with any weakness: real, imagined, or perceived. It made being their friend deucedly difficult at times, because defending them was nigh-on impossible, but it was incredibly rewarding. Miranda nodded back and gave him a supportive nod. She knew he had understood when his shoulders slumped from the release of tension, and he turned to follow her progress. Apparently, he didn’t want to miss this.

She understood that, too.

With firm strides, Miranda went straight to the enclosure where Lestrade was questioning the children. Her path took her directly past Donovan, but Miranda made sure not to give her so much as a glance.

The Inspector was waiting for her at the opening, resignation and embarrassment on his face. He started to gesture her inside, but Miranda would have none of that.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” she began a clear voice – not loud, but it did carry, because she wanted everyone in the room to know that what Donovan had done was not acceptable for any reason. He involuntarily straightened at her tone and met her eyes, wariness now his prominent emotion as she continued.

“I would like Sergeant Donovan removed from the room, please,” she told him, keeping her gaze locked with his. “Her behaviour is unacceptable and I will not have my students believing otherwise.” A muscle jumped in his jaw at that and shame replaced the wariness, but he nodded.

“Certainly,” he said hoarsely. “And may I offer my apologies?”

“You may not,” she replied firmly. “ _She_ needs to, as they were her words and actions.”

He winced at that and Miranda frowned internally. Before she could ask, however, a strident voice broke into the conversation.

“What do you mean, ‘certainly’?” Donovan demanded, glaring at both of them.

“Just that, Sergeant,” Lestrade shot back, his eyes flashing with anger now. “Your behaviour was wrong and while I accept the blame for letting it go this long, Mrs. Chesterton is correct. YOU are responsible for your actions. These children have seen one of their classmates – one of their _friends_ – taken in front of their eyes, and they’re behaving better than you!”

Fuming, Donovan opened her mouth to object, but Lestrade snapped, “Not. A. Word. You will apologize and then you will leave the room. In fact – you will wait at the car. Give your notes to Hopkins.”

When she made no attempt to move, Lestrade stepped right up to her and, in a low voice that made several people flinch, said, “Did I stutter, Sergeant?”

Flushing with anger and humiliation, Donovan spat, “No. Sir. You were perfectly clear.”

Giving Miranda a poisonous look, she bit out, “I apologize for offending you, ma’am,” thrust her notebook at the young man who had just come up behind her, and stalked out of the room. Miranda’s mouth actually fell open, but she had no chance to  . . . well, anything, because John Watson moved to her shoulder and softly said, “Don’t. There’s bad blood between her and Sherlock and forcing an apology would have been . . . let’s just say ‘a lot not good.’”

Incredulous, Miranda could only stare. Behind her, Lestrade sighed. “He’s right,” the inspector said quietly. “That doesn’t make it okay, and I assure you, I _will_ be having a more in-depth discussion with her later, but for right now, it’s the best I can do.”

Dazed, Miranda shook her head – only to look up in sudden horror. “The children!” she gasped. “They saw –”

John and Lestrade winced and they all spun to look at the table – only to see Sherlock Holmes holding court with an enraptured group of 11-year-olds by showing them how to spin a bottle cap inside a pair of handcuffs. Lestrade and John breathed relieved sighs in tandem, and Miranda offered up a small prayer of thanks.

“That was close,” John observed, to which she and Lestrade gave weak grins.

“Right,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “Let’s crack on, then, shall we?” he asked rhetorically. “Oi! Sherlock! Quit monopolizing the children and tell me what you know.”

Sherlock scowled but stood up, flipping the bottle cap high in the air and letting it fall where it would – with a horde of children watching it with eager eyes, ready to pounce the instant it hit the ground.

“Dull, Lestrade,” he proclaimed once he was out of earshot of the class. “The boy was kidnapped by Farthing’s mother, because he’s currently outstripping her son for top academic honours, and she thinks this will scare him into deliberately sabotaging his grades.”

At this pronouncement, John grinned, Lestrade groaned, and Miranda stared – and suddenly wished, with a fierce ache, that she had been one of his teachers. Something (several somethings) told her that his school years had been lonely and miserable.

After a minute of silence, Lestrade ventured, “So, how will I find him, then?”, which earned him an eyeroll that was so hard it had to hurt.

“Must I do everything, Lestrade?” Sherlock demanded, only to subside at the gentle grasp of John’s hand on his shoulder.

“Usually, no,” the inspector replied with a faint scowl. “But in this case, I want to find the boy as quickly as possible, so if that means you have to draw me a map with arrows and breadcrumbs, give me a loaf and some crayons.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up, but a bare second later, he smirked and said, “The mother will likely have a cottage or some such registered under her maiden name, but I’ll know for sure after I talk to her.”

Lestrade nodded. “All right. Give me a few minutes to get the rest of the kids’ statements arranged and we’ll go.”

“Why?” Sherlock demanded. “I just told you where he’ll be!”

Miranda shook her head at that. It didn’t surprise her, but it was saddening. He was so used to being vilified for being right that he honestly didn’t understand that having confirmation and a backup plan wasn’t an insult or slight to him.

“Procedure,” Lestrade answered patiently. “Just in case.”

Sherlock huffed, but Miranda saw John squeeze his shoulder and he subsided.

“Fine,” he muttered with a pout. Miranda almost giggled, because his lower lip was actually sticking out. He looked ridiculous – cute, in an odd way, but ridiculous. John winked at her and she had to cough to cover the laugh.

“In that case, gentlemen, I think I’ll rejoin my students,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, turning in a swirl of dark coat and heading for the door. John gave her a longsuffering look and a smile before following, and Lestrade looked torn between going after them and escorting her. Miranda sympathized.

“Go,” she said, waving him on. “I’m perfectly capable of walking.”

He made no attempt to disguise his relief as he turned away and called, “Hopkins! Finish getting their statements for me. Davis, Porter – with me!”

Miranda caught his sleeve as the officers rushed to obey his orders and he looked back at her quizzically.

“Find him,” she said firmly. “Whatever it takes.”

“On my word,” he replied equally firmly. “We will find him.”

And he left, his officers falling into step behind him, confidence showing in every stride.

Miranda watched them go. She had little doubt, now, that Samuel would be located, and the sudden relief made her a little light-headed. Still, she knew she wouldn’t rest at all until he was safely returned, and offered a prayer for God to light their way before rejoining her students.

~~~~~

Three days later, Samuel Brownstone came into her class with a new backpack, a huge smile, and a bodyguard. The entire class burst into applause and Miranda blinked back tears as the boy was mobbed by his classmates. There had been no public acknowledgement of the kidnapping, because Sherlock Holmes had indeed found the boy the same day he was taken. She knew this only because John Watson had come by the school the next day. He had given her only the bare bones, which was rather frustrating, though Miranda knew she was lucky to get anything at all. Asking him to convey her personal gratitude to Sherlock had earned her a bright smile; mention of Donovan brought a carefully blank face, which saddened her – until she saw the sparkle in his eyes.

Small arms being thrown around her waist brought her attention back to the present and she looked down into Samuel’s beaming face.

“I’m back, Miss Chesterton!” he cried, hugging her tightly. Smiling hard enough to hurt, Miranda returned the embrace for a few minutes before stepping back and casting a stern eye over her class.

“All right, children, settle down,” she ordered, hating that she had to curtail their joy but knowing it was necessary. Routine and normalcy were the best things for Samuel right now. There was much grumbling as her students obeyed, but they were all quickly back in their desks and watching her, including Samuel from his seat in the second row. He gave her a bright, happy smile and she returned it before going to the chalkboard.

“Today,” she began, “we’ll be working on verb conjugation.”

~~~~~

_finis_


End file.
